The Unbreakable Toy
by Sweet Namaste
Summary: Set after Abominable Bride. Sherlock, now privy to Moriarty's return, scrambles to uncover his newest plot while requiring the help of Moriarty's favorite toy, Lillith. But is she reliable? Or a trap? Bad at summaries, potential for pairing later on. Let's see how I feel as we progress. Rated M cos language and adult themes - torture, rape, etc.


**AN: First Sherlock fic. I would love some reviews, it's been some time since I've written and I'm feeling quite rusty. This isn't necessarily an AU, set after the Abominable Bride; more a time killer as we eagerly await the next season! It's been even longer I feel like since watching the show, so if I muff anything up, please let me know and I'll correct myself. Enjoy!**

 _Miss me?_

The words zoomed around the detective's mind palace like a swarm of bees, angrily buzzing around his head and body, distracting him to no end. Irritation swelled within him, and no doubt he had a childish pout plastered on his face, although he paid it no mind. Two years he had spent dismantling everything Moriarty had built, coming back only with brother dear's assurance that it was surely safe to return to 221B Baker St - moreover, to return to his life with John, return to life as a whole. He was not a man that enjoyed wasting his time on frivolous pursuits, and here he had now found that he had done just that.  
Two years. John's suffering, which regardless of his emotional detatchments and lack of sentiment, he felt and cared about deeply. All wasted.

 _Miss me?_

More wasp-like thoughts swarmed around his brain as he tried to devise a plan. But even with the great mind of Sherlock Holmes, he had no idea where to start. He would not admit to such petty feelings, but fear for his doctor's life squeezed at his chest and caused him a stifling panic.

 _I will burn the heart out of you._

Well, lucky for him, he had no heart. But the ever-caring John Watson had one; his heart was large enough for the both of them. It was the detective's only weakness, truly. And even now as fear groped his innards his mind palace twisted, dark and daft, unceremoniously empty with a heavy scent of mildew.  
His attention focused on a small flicker of light that had appeared from beneath a door, seemingly hidden by wallpaper. Had he done this intentionally? He tore the watermarked paper away hurriedly and wrenched it open with the tips of his calloused fingers.  
All he could see was the silhouette of a woman, red light eminating from behind her. A smile played on his face.

 _Miss me?_

With a snap he returned to reality, staring into the faces of his blogger and not-so-dear brother. He resisted the urge to insult Mycroft, agitated with his ignorance in allowing his return, and instead focused on the woman. He inhaled sharply.  
"Come, John. We have someone to locate." He didn't wait for a reply, nor did he even hear his brother's snide remarks as he swirled his coattails and began in the other direction. He could however hear Watson's short gait stumbling behind him in an effort to match his swift, long strides. To his bemusement, Mycroft allowed them to leave without another word, even as they stole away in his vehicle.  
"So, who exactly are we looking for?" The doctor made small-talk as he plopped down next to him, ignoring the larger problem at hand for his own sanity, he was sure.  
"A woman; Lillith Prentys." He stopped short, leaving John to stare at him incredulously.  
"...And?"  
Oh, how drab. Sometimes he hated having to explain.  
"She is one of the few people I'd dispatched after Moriarty died. She spent time with him, to say the least. Perhaps more time than anyone. She won't be easy to find, but she's one of the few that isn't dead, jailed, or otherwise non-compliant."

He ignored John now, who had begun another line of questioning, losing himself in the memory of when he'd found her. He needed to focus now, remembering anything he could that would allude him to her location.

 **Sherlock pressed forward, studying anything and everything he could come across within one of the many rabbit holes Moriarty had made for himself. It was dimly lit and his footsteps echoed along the concrete flooring, reverberating off of the similarly concrete walls. Of course Moriarty had picked something so picturesquely demented and foreboding as his lair; to inspire fear in any he'd brought along with him, to add to the essence of his Consulting Criminal title. He physically scoffed to himself as he side-stepped a rather large, musty puddle, ensuring his shoes and pantlegs stay dry. Other than the atmosphere it granted, it was devoid of anything personal, or even impersonal. It was clear he only used this place for business transactions, and he did not spend much time there otherwise.  
The cylindrical hallway finally ended at a large iron door, sealed off with a heavy chain and lock. Finally, something interesting! He fiddled with the locks, quickly picking and turning it's tumbler with ease. The door swung open with a horrendous screech. There was no light within the room, but the odor of rotting food and stagnant air swiftly entered his lungs, and he struggled to cover his nose and avoid a small gag while simultaneously slinking his mobile from his pocket and allowing it's light to fill the cavern. He sucked in air swiftly in surprise, much to his dismay. A woman lay in the center of the room, leg shackled to the floor with chains much like those on the door, nude. The light of his mobile shone eerily off of her strawberry-blonde hair, catching odd angles on her gaunt frame and dirty pearlescent skin. She was breathing, however just so, and as he stepped closer he could see the many scars** **and cuts that lined her back. She lay hunched forward, long legs kicked out behind her. He removed his coat and draped it over her gently before attempting to nudge her awake. It was clear to him she was dehydrated - the skin on her lips had begun to peel, as well as turn a slight purple hue from the cold - and the state of her thin frame proved she also hadn't eaten in days. Signs of torture littered her body, the black and blue bruises slowly fading to yellow as they healed slowly from malnutrition. It had been a week since Moriarty had shot himself, and Sherlock himself had faked his death. Somehow she had managed this long, although it seemed she'd had enough food to last a few days, all within reach, yet rotten. So, she had chosen to die instead of prolong torture...admirable. As the detective glanced at the walls, he noticed an array of devices, to inflict pain no doubt, as well as spotting a small table along the far wall. A closer examination with his mobile revealed blood splatter along the floor, the walls, the table itself. He slowly jilted her shoulder, only receiving a soft mewl in response. He looked about - no further doors or openings of any kind. This was all he kept here. Sherlock's lithe fingers picked her lock with ease, and within moments her impossibly light frame was hoisted into his arms, shoes clicking as he exited the dungeon.**


End file.
